


Four Moments

by pulangaraw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:51:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pulangaraw/pseuds/pulangaraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four moments in John and Sherlock's lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brazil

**Author's Note:**

> The first three ficlets were written for prompts that Caersmane gave me. The last I wrote to cheer myself up. Could be considered crack. And finally: Ficlet #2 is an x-over with The Baker, just in case anyone notices.

"Where the hell have you been?" John shouts, the moment he hears Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs. The flat's door is wide open, has been for the past two days, and Mrs Hudson hasn't said a word about it, not after seeing John's face and the state of their flat on Friday night.

Sherlock steps into the room, into John's line of sight and the words die on John's lips. All he can do is stare. Sherlock, at least, has the good sense to look uncomfortable.

"Where the hell have you been," John repeats after his brain has resumed working, but this time it's a whisper.

Sherlock rakes a hand through his hair, causing a cascade of glitter to fall onto his shoulders and the floor. John blinks for a moment at the impossible sight. He hasn't even had time yet to process the bright pink shirt and skin-tight white jeans.

"Brazil," Sherlock says, and there is a world of loathing in his tone.

"Brazil?"

Sherlock crosses the room, sinks down onto the sofa and closes his eyes. "Yes. Did you know they have something called a 'Carnival' there every year? Why do people do that to themselves?"

John tries, he really tries, but he just can't stop himself from laughing at that. This whole situation is surreal. And here he had been, worrying himself sick for the past two days.

Sherlock cracks open one eye and frowns at him. "I fail to see how this is in any way funny," he says peevishly.

John pulls himself together a bit. "Must be the shock."

Sherlock sits up, suddenly alert. He eyes John sharply. "What shock?"

John waves a hand at Sherlock's attire. "Have you seen yourself recently?"

Sherlock looks down at himself. "Oh, that. I lost my clothes at the Copacabana. The strip club, not the beach."

"Okay, you've officially lost me. How does someone lose their clothes at a strip club?"

Sherlock looks at John as if he's the dumbest thing he's seen this entire week. "I was stripping, of course. Perfect way to keep my eyes on the perpetrator. Not so perfect for staying in possession of my clothes. I have never seen a more hysterical bunch of women in my life."

John shakes his head. "Let me get this straight: Between Friday night and this Monday morning you have managed to fly to Brazil, work in a strip club, take part in the Carnival and fly back. And I am guessing from the fact that you are not trying to kill the violin again that you solved whatever case you were on as well."

Sherlock flops back down on the sofa, lets a hand fall over his eyes. "Pretty much, yes. Now, I am dying for a cup of tea. Would you be so kind?"

There's nothing really John can say to this, so he goes and makes them both a cuppa.


	2. Cake

"Uhm, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"There's a cake in the bath tub." John stepped into the living room to find Holmes in his usual thinking position stretched out on the sofa, his fingers steepled under his chin.

"It's a Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte or black forest gateau to be precise." Holmes said.

John narrowed his eyes. "Okay... Why is there a black forest gateau in the bath tub?"

"Evidence."

"Evidence," John echoed.

Holmes swung himself into a sitting position. "Yes. It was sent to me this morning from Wales by a man called Rhys. He is asking me to use my deductive skills to find out if the baker who made this cake is really a baker. It's quite an easy case, if amusing." He waved his hand towards a piece of paper lying on the sofa table.

John picked it up and read through the letter. "This doesn't make any sense."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"He clearly says that he knows the guy to be a professional hitman and yet asks you to confirm that he's a baker. This man is either insane or playing a game with you."

"My dear John, do try to use your imagination. This man obviously has the full use of his – admittedly mediocre – mental capacities and is quite serious in his request."

"Then how do you explain this letter?" John waved the offending piece of paper.

Sherlock grabbed the letter from him. "Judging by the oil stains and smell on this paper, it was send by someone who works in a fish-and-chips shop. The writer is clearly over the age of fifty. I already mentioned that it was sent from Wales and you so astutely observed that the writer of this letter already knows that the baker in question used to work as a paid assassin. As far as I am aware the United Assassins Of Britain And North Ireland have only one safe-house in Wales in a village that also has a fish-and-chips shop. Which leads to the conclusion that there is currently an assassin living in said village. From the - admittedly, rather convoluted - phrasing of the letter writer's request, we can conclude that this assassin has given up his former profession and is now working as the village baker. The letter writer is simply asking me to determine whether this change in profession is genuine or just a front."

John blinked. "Okay. And is it?"

"Is it what?"

"Genuine."

"Oh, yes. Obviously. That cake is the worst black forest gateau I have tasted in my entire life. Which is why I have banished it to the bathroom." Holmes flopped back onto the sofa. "Now, if you would be so kind as to grab some paper and a pen and sit down at the desk, I would like to write an answering letter."

Since he couldn't think of any good reasons to deny this request, John sighed and did as he was asked.


	3. Beige Tiles And Magazines

"Sherlock? Are you in?" John dropped the shopping bags onto the kitchen counter and checked the living room.

"Bathroom," Sherlock's voice drifted in from the direction of the hallway.

John debated for a moment if he should just wait until Sherlock was finished with whatever grooming - or experimenting - he was doing at the moment, but Sherlock had never been much for privacy before, so John went and pushed the bathroom door open.

Sherlock was lying in the bathtub, fully clothed - well, as fully clothed as a man wearing a ratty t-shirt, pyjama pants and a bathrobe ever could be - and was reading a magazine. The floor around him was littered with stacks of magazines, evidently having been read recently.

"Good. You're just in time." Sherlock said, eyes still on Bliss.

John cocked his head. "What's going on?"

"I'm reading up on the Ins and Outs of modern society."

"I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock looked up. "You of all people should understand. You've been nagging me about my - admittedly rather sketchy - knowledge about our post-modern entertainment-slash-consumer culture. I have decided to amend this gap in my knowledge. Recent cases have proven that a more in-depth knowledge might be useful to solving them."

John smiled. He bent down and picked up a couple of magazines from the floor. "And that's why you are reading Horticulture Week, Inside Soap and Flavour."

"Precisely."

"And why are you reading them in the bathtub?"

"Oh that," Sherlock waved a hand, "When I started on Ikonz - which, by the way, is spelled so atrociously wrong that it has to be on purpose-" John nodded, "I feared that I might be sick from the pure stupidity in those pages, I relocated here to be closer to the toilet, should I need it."

"Ah."

"Now," Sherlock pointed to the toilet, "Have a seat and start quizzing me. I think I am ready."


	4. Push

"Come on, John. Harder! You can do better than that." Sherlock panted.

"I'm giving it as much as I can," John growled and pushed as hard as he could.

"Yes! Keep going. Like that! Come on!" Sherlock's voice was strained and John could see beads of sweat forming on his forehead, rolling down his temples. His hair stuck up in wild curls as he bent his head down.

John gave another hard push and finally the sofa dislodged itself from where it had been stuck in the doorway and screeched across the floor. Sherlock almost fell over backward from the sudden movement, but managed to catch himself at the last second and keep the sofa's momentum going by pulling it towards him.

"That's it!" he proclaimed happily and dragged the sofa to its destination against he far wall.

"I still don't see why we needed a new sofa. The old one was fine." John said, pushing from his end.

"Exactly. It was fine. This one, though, is divine!" Sherlock gave one last pull and the sofa slid in its place. He flopped onto it with a flourish.

John stood, hands on his hips, trying to catch his breath.

Sherlock grinned up at John, eyes sparkling. "Shall we dedicate it properly?" He patted the small space of cushion next to him.

John grinned back. "Of course."


End file.
